


Drunk Again

by KateKintail



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateKintail/pseuds/KateKintail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s drunk again. Short drabble. ‘Nuff said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunk Again

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The pups, drunk or sober, are not mine and I don’t get paid for ‘em.
> 
> Notes: 1,000 words on the dot

He’s drunk again. Drunk off his arse every night this week, and probably next if you’re asking me, which no one ever bothers to do. And he’s not just drunk on beer. No, he took in enough hard liquor to start his own bar. And that’s the stuff that goes straight to his head. Used to be that he’d have a couple of fire whiskeys and be knocked out, but no longer. Now he’s built up a rather respectable tolerance.

I’ve had my nights as well, don’t get me wrong. And when we’re both drunk it usually ends in the two pups snogging over the bar counter and jerking each other off in the back alley. It’s a wonder we ever make it home in times like that.

He looks up at me, completely and utterly knackered, his eyes swimming, his face pale. “Home?” he requests. He leans sideways against me and grabs my jacket to keep himself upright.

I nod and stroke his hair softly, feeling dampness in it. “Home,” I agree, slipping my arm around his waist and guiding him towards the door.

His head bobs upon his neck, then finally falls to the side against my shoulder. “I’m drunk again,” he informs me, still clutching my shirt as I try to walk him forward down the cold London streets.

I’m well aware of this fact without him actually coming right out to say it, but I nod and push him on. “I know, Love. We’ll be home in a minute.” His feet don’t have a problem moving, its just their placement that makes him stumble uncertainly. Without me holding onto him, he would walk right into the side of a building and fall asleep standing up against it.

He grins and throws his arm loosely around my shoulders. “I like going home with you.”

“I know you do,” I tell him, hurrying him along. I sense danger, and not from him. With the busy bar behind us, the dark streets at two in the morning are shrouded in shadow and suspicion. I grab my wand out of my pocket, just in case. I’ve had a few drinks, myself, but I’m sober enough to defend us if we’re attacked. At least, I hope I am. On nights like these, when the panic takes over for reason, I wish I were drunk off my arse as well. And then I wouldn’t notice the way a shadow moves unnaturally in an alley, or the way the light from one window seems tinted a little green. When I’m drunk, I don’t have to think about the fact that we could die at any moment, or that no matter how hard we’re working at it, evil seems one step ahead of us.

Our building isn’t far, which is why we frequent that particular bar. When you’re too drunk to aparate, living within walking distance is the next best thing. I tighten my grip on him as we head up the stairs and to the flat.

As I lock the door behind us, he walks slowly to the bed, stripping out of his jacket and pants along the way, leaving a trail across the floor. He crawls across the bed and then collapses on top of the covers with a grunt. I walk over, tugging the blankets down beneath him and then draping them over him as he huddles with cold in the middle of the bed. “I’m drunk again,” he whispers, looking up at me. “And I want you.” He reaches up and grabs my belt buckle, undoing it with learned skill and pulling the belt off around my waist. He holds it with both hands, snapping it.

“Not tonight,” I tell him, shaking my head. I don’t seem to mind jerking him off when we’re both drunk, so long as he does me, too. But when I’m fine and he’s drunk, something just feels wrong to me about making love to him. Even if he is wild and uninhibited like that. Even if we have had some of the best sex of our lives while drunk.

Problem is, this isn’t a happy drunk. It’s not the night of a wedding, or a celebration of the capture of death eaters. No, this is a depressed drunk. This is the sort of drunk you are when you want to forget things. And he’s got a lot he wants to forget. I just don’t want one of them to be me.

He paws at my clothes, trying to pull me into bed with him. “I’m going to go heat up a towel for you and get you some water,” I tell him, bending and kissing his forehead. It’s damp, like his hair, only more-so.

When I return, he’s already half asleep, head on my pillow. I sigh and set the water aside, after a few gulps of it, myself. I rub the towel against his cheek, and he nuzzles back at. “Sirius…” he says softly, starting to drift off completely. “Don’t let me wake up to another letter.”

“I won’t,” I say, though I can’t promise him anything. No one wants to hire a werewolf. And the new ministry regulations say he has to inform them in his initial interview. The rejection letters are frequent and, it seems, never-ending. I tell him he doesn’t have to find a job. He can just work for the Order and live off my savings with me. But he doesn’t like using my parents’ money, and he likes feeling useful. “But I want you, even if you are a werewolf,” I reassure him, slipping into bed and wrapping an arm around him. He snuggles up to me with a smile and falls asleep.

I’m sure he will have no memory of this the next morning, when the blasted headache overpowers him and makes him put off tea and reading The Daily Prophet in favor of sleep. But right now at least he’s in blissful ignorance, being drunk again.


End file.
